


An Object at Rest

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s August, and the summer has gone on too long. He left her here at the start of July</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Object at Rest

The swing set is burning hot to touch, so she wraps her fingers in the sleeves of her jacket and grips the chains through cotton. Underneath where she sits, the ground is dry, baked from the sun, and her delicate ballet flats soon earn a layer of dirt from how she kicks and sways in place. Her lip gloss is melting, turning tacky-sticky like lavender coloured toffee; she presses her lips together and smacks them apart, testing.

 

It's August, and the summer has gone on too long. He left her here at the start of July.

 

Eight weeks. Eight weeks of endless days folding t-shirts and pronouncing all her consonants. Eight weeks of stuffy afternoons on the couch with her mum, ignoring the gloating and the barbs and the deep well of insecurity that all her harsh words try to hide. Eight weeks of breathless evenings, the air too heavy for her lungs; lying on her bed with her eyes squeezed shut, feeling the slow trickle of seconds as they passed, making her skin itch and crawl. Eight weeks of remembering how his hands felt on her shoulders – rough, calloused, and impossibly gentle – as he held her close and said he'd be back.

 

Rose plants her feet down firmly and deliberately, gaining momentum; she starts to swing. Between the greying, decaying blocks of flats she can see sky, glorious blue and cloudless, and she tilts her head up to keep it in her sights as she arcs through the air. The wind makes her hair whip about her face, catching on the glue of her lip gloss, tearing free of the clip she'd placed it in. Closing her eyes, she feels the overwhelming heat of the sun beating down, the shocking coolness as the air hits her sweat-damp neck, the rush of movement as she falls and climbs and falls and climbs. She is a pendulum, but today, now, she's set herself on the path; this flight is of her own making, and she grins, opening her eyes slowly.

 

He's there. Leaning against his blue box, arms crossed over his chest. Her arc reaches the point where they are closest – his eyebrows rise, “ _Well?”_ , they say - and then she is drawn away by her momentum. Let him come to me, she thinks, and presses her body back to maintain the rhythm of the swing. When she soars forward again, she can see a smile on his face, so faint, but there, and he takes a step towards her; she smirks and extends her legs, creating drag to slow her some on her descent. Another step. She becomes a lump of stone on the seat, still and heavy. In long strides he crosses the distance between them, and she judges the risk acceptable: she leaps and is in his arms.

 

She is lifted, flying again as he twirls her through the air in a hug that presses her tight against the sun-warmed leather of his jacket. Her heart races like it never did on the swing set, and she is laughing and smiling and then leaning up to kiss him. Their mouths meet, his hands tangle in her hair; when his tongue slides across her lips, she groans, and then he tastes like her lip gloss: sweet and plastic and bitter. Her fingers burn where they touch his skin at the base of his neck (keeping him close) and resting lightly on his wrist (keeping him closer). Lungs aching, knees trembling, she draws away, reluctant. His eyes are pale-blue rims around the darkest pupils; his mouth is smeared with pink. Rose brushes away the evidence of their kiss from his lips with her thumb.

 

'Missed you,' she tells him softly, looking up into his face.

 

'Noticed,' he replies. His palms smooth across her shoulders, tidying her hair tossed into such disarray. She watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously, and then he has returned to himself. There's a manic grin and his eyes twinkle. She slips her hand in his and they clasp together; a squeeze; their fingers entwine. He glances over, taking in her outfit, and comes to a decision. 'Let's go dancin'!'

 

Rose's jaw drops. 'What? You an' me?'

 

'Who else?' He growls, playfully. Only it's not, really. It's a pointed question, too – _is there someone else?_ \- and it's testimony to the vulnerability he can't allow himself to show her. 'What d'ya say? Dinner an' dancin' – I've got just the place.'

 

'All right,' she agrees, threading her arm around his, resting her face on his shoulder as they walk back to the TARDIS.

 

Her chest is tight with words, complicated feelings; things she wants to ask, but is too afraid to have answered. Instead, she keeps her eyes focused on the blue box in front of them. When she does that, the world narrows down, turns simple. She's with the Doctor.

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this an alternate ending for “Dalek” where, instead of inviting Adam on board, the Doctor needs time to process his feelings regarding Rose after the events in the bunker. He leaves her in London for two months, safe and bored and driving Jackie mad.


End file.
